


A Cheap Cigarette

by idlesuperstar



Series: The Life And Death Of Sugar Candy [12]
Category: The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then - Clive. Clive turning up and shattering it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cheap Cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the evening of [_A Difficult Train_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/861336). It will make sense if you've seen the film, but it will make more sense if you've read that story too.
> 
> Series notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/36980)

Three years, Theo thought bitterly, making his steady way past the lake to the stable blocks. Three years tramping this same path. Every stone familiar. Every change noticeable. The parched grass. The earth showing through brown and dusty. Last summer had been wet. This year the lake was lower than ever. He noticed such things now. He had become used to noticing the changes. He had grown accustomed to it. He had never spent so long in a single place. And here he was, accustomed to it. To his prison. 

He nodded in passing at a group of men traipsing back up the hill; gleaming, wet-haired, joking with each other, sketching salutes to him. Easy for them, he thought. No. Don’t think that. Never easy. But a cool shower and a cheap cigarette on an evening like this; small riches. They weren’t his men. His men had the gift of a decent cigarette now and then. No. Don’t think that either. He continued his measured pace, passed a brace of men, pink-skinned from scrubbing, shirtsleeves rolled, shirts loose, tunics tucked under their arms. He could feel the sweat trickling down his spine, the grimy stink of himself. He looked across at the water, thought of stripping naked, running yelling into its cool depths. Like - no. Don’t think that either. Especially not that. He clenched his fists, continued along the path. Mendelssohn. He would think of that. Whistled a burst of it, unclenched his fists deliberately. He was still whistling as he pushed open the heavy door, the sound echoing back at him. Empty. Those men had been the last stragglers. Good. The smell of carbolic soap and wet brick, cool and damp. Thick walls. Thick walls painted again and again over the years. Once upon a time you could still smell the hint of straw and horses in here. That had long faded. At least rigging up the showers had occupied the men for a time. Strip a conscript of his uniform and you’d find a plumber, or a joiner, or a housepainter. Or a poet. They may be lousy with a bayonet but they could pretty up their prison. Not the poets. There were no poets here. They ended up in the French mud, or the Sanatorium. 

He put down his threadbare towel, unbuttoned his tunic quickly, desperate - now he could - to get it off. Uniforms made no concession to the seasons. His was dark with sweat at the armpits. Foul. He spread it over the bench, trying to air it. His shirt was stuck to his back. Why did they wear their uniforms still? But he knew. Us and them. A distinction. Everyone to know their place. And their rank. Clever. An orderly camp was a quiet camp. The lower ranks still saluted him, as if they were not all stuck in the same wretched boat.

Still. He sat down, unbuckling his boots. He looked after his men. Boys, still, some of them. He peeled off his socks, stretched his toes in the cool air. The quiet in here was the more welcome for its rarity. You were hardly ever alone in the camp. That was enough to drive you mad, if you let it. He stood, unbuckled his belt. His trousers were stuck to the backs of his knees. The thought of climbing back into them after his shower was vile. Wool, in high summer. He laid them out to air. It was damp in here. They would only cool down, not dry. He looked at his sad empty tunic. All he saw, day after day. Grey, grey, grey. And khaki. He blanched. Khaki no longer meant soldiers. It only meant guards. Guards, and the Commandant. Davies. The rough scratch of wool. Something - he heaved a breath. No. Do not think of that, especially. Pulled his sticking shirt over his head angrily, flinging it down. 

That summons today. He’d been raging, that Davies would drag him from the music, as if to show that he called the shots. That blundering Sergeant with his rough voice, breaking into his thoughts, his memories. You couldn’t tell a guard to go to hell, even if you outranked him. You were not free to do so. He stripped his clinging underwear off and strode over to the shower, turning the tap hard.

But it hadn’t been Davies. It was better, and worse, far worse. _Clive_. He twisted the tap full on, and still the water was a half-hearted spray. Tepid too. It always was, this time of night. Clive, here! Clive, in Davies’ rooms. It was unbearable. He could not have seen Clive for the first time in seventeen years with Davies watching his every move. The man was no fool. He picked up the paltry sliver of soap, rubbed it hard between his hands. 

A firm, friendly handshake and a polite, bluff, greeting. Unbearable. And Clive, what would he have done? It was impossible. That note! That _VERY MUCH_. Clive was the same as ever, would have given himself away a thousand times without knowing it, under Davies’ watchful eye. Theo could not have that. Better to not see him at all, than that. He soaped himself vigorously, scrubbing under his arms, across his chest, cursing the cheap soap and its poor lather. 

He could not have Davies see it. Davies was a pathetically easy mark, but he was still intelligent. It had been child’s play, gulling him. This dried up schoolteacher. Easy to play the reticent pupil. Easy to throw a chess game, but still come out on top. His men had liked to think of their Oberst trouncing the Commandant at chess, winning pack after pack of cigarettes that he willingly shared amongst them. They had liked the hundred little freedoms they never knew he won for them. Things that had kept them from going under. And what had he been giving away? Nothing. He’d had worse in one night on the Berlin streets than in three years here. The scratch of khaki, the wrong hand on him. It had been nothing to him. 

And then - _Clive_. Clive turning up and shattering it all. The clumsy oaf. Theo ducked his head under the water, scrubbing ferociously at his hair with the useless soap. He could never leave things alone, Clive. Bounding down the lawn like a stupid happy dog. Three fucking years of putting up with things and Clive trampling all over it in seconds. Clive, in that fucking _uniform_. Theo soaped his belly roughly, wishing the water was scalding hot. If only he had not had that uniform on. Davies was pathetic. The guards were stupid children. But Clive, in that fucking khaki, with his face alight. It was too much. He reached to scrub at his shoulders, as much of his back as he could, his arse; turned round to sluice the grimy water off himself. 

He lathered his hands again, put the soap back on its makeshift ledge, soaped down his thighs hard, crouched down to reach his calves; tried to scrub the grime out from between his toes. Stood again and bent his head under the water to let it hit the nape of his neck as he soaped round his balls and cock. All those times with Davies’ hand on his cock and he’d thought of Clive instead. And then seeing him, vivid, close, real; feeling the heat of him. Like tasting dark rich coffee after years of the swill in the trenches. You got so used to the mediocre from necessity that the real thing was dizzying, too much to bear. It could undo you. He tilted his head back again, let the water run down, plastering his hair to his forehead. Breathing hard for a moment, hands clenched. Then smoothed his hair back, wiped the water from his eyes. The rasp of evening stubble. It came through grey now, in patches. The familiar ridge of his scar. _Damn_ Clive! Damn him for that fucking scar. Inescapable. Every day, in the mirror, as he shaved. Every time he had to tell the story, the funny story about how he won his wife’s hand. He stood, hands clenched hard at the back of his neck, as if he could hold himself together by sheer force.

Clive’s _face_. That idiot. He dropped his arms, rolled his shoulders out. Breathed out, deliberately slow and steady. Took up the last sliver of soap and lathered his hands again. Washed his stomach, his abdomen; slow, easy strokes. Soaped his cock again, aware that he was past clean, was doing it for the feel of it, with the memory of Clive vivid in his mind. He’d barely aged. Still the same broad chest, the same strong legs. The same _hands_. His cock was hardening under his hand. Clive’s ridiculous shining face. The fool. He had no fucking idea, did he? The world parted around him; the grime and taint and _compromise,_ he never saw any of it. Theo was hard now, stroking himself faster. Clive had no idea what he’d been through. Never mind the hell of mud and lice and slaughter, they’d both had that. But the thousand little compromises. Before the war, and after, in this deadening place. He wanted to shake Clive hard, to make him see. The things Theo had done, for his men. The things he had done, to protect himself. To protect _Clive_. Destroying that photograph - his precious photograph of Clive, just so the guards would not find it. It would have ruined Clive. And the idiot had no idea, no fucking idea. Theo wanted to grab him, shake him; hold him down and force him to see. Hold him down - he sped his hand - hold him down and, god, fuck him, _hard_. Make him understand. The effort it took, every day, to keep it all in. Fuck. Clive had been reaching out to him, a breath away, reaching out with his strong hand to touch - he had _had_ to turn away. Had Clive _touched_ him - 

He breathed hard, shuddering, the anger suddenly gone. He stilled his hand, leant against the wall, head pillowed on his arm, shaking. Water dripping cold from his hair. The water warm on his shoulders. Clive didn’t care, did he? That was the thing. He didn’t care what the whole fucking German army thought. He just - Theo huffed out a shaky breath - no-one had ever, in his life, looked at him with such honest joy. It was like warm sunlight, or pure sugar, or a cool glass of good hock. Ach! Student poetry. True, though. And Clive would have touched him, in front of everyone. Would have - what? Grabbed his arms? Embraced him? And Theo, Theo who had been so careful, who had had years of being _so_ careful - in front of Edith, in front of his men, in front of Davies - Theo would have rolled over like a dog with its true master. 

He ducked his head back under the water, took his cock in his hand again, stroking firmly. He would have exposed his throat, in front of the world, and asked to be taken. Fuck, yes. he tightened his hand at the thought. That was the worst of it. Five years of holding everything together; of war, of subjugation, and Clive in a second had him wanting to surrender himself. And he would. Shamefully he would. He would be conquered willingly. It meant nothing that he knew Clive would feel the same, would willingly surrender also. Theo would offer no resistance. Clive’s hands, those prophet’s hands, all over him. A memory, fierce, of Clive in bed. All the details had been lost over the years, but the sense of it, the feel of it was still there. And what did he want? He wanted Clive to take him.  Those arms, those strong arms, holding him tight, bands around his chest. Secure. Owned. Clive fucking him, hard, while he stripped his own cock. Clive’s thighs, rasping, hot, immovable. That time they had wrestled! The heat, the sweat, the smell of it! Clive’s skin flushed pink and his hair a wreck. Clive, holding him hard from behind; _fuck,_ that had made him hard. He braced his feet against the cold floor, sped his hand. Clive, breathing harshly into his neck. Years ago, but it had stayed vivid, been something to get him through dark nights, with his hand on his cock, pretending it was Clive’s hand. He’d never cared, before, about strength. Whether someone was well built. But Clive. Clive with his ridiculous heart, his simplicity. He was like an Arthurian knight. Living by a chivalric code. But real. A knight who was flesh and blood, impetuous; who would quest for him, rescue him and then - he was close now, his breath harsh over the faint sound of water, the blood buzzing in his veins, his hand fast on his cock - rescue him and then fuck him, hard, until they were both dying of it, desperate, the world nothing but them in it, fuck - _fuck_ \- and he was coming, back arched, taut, coming over his hand and stomach, flushed, panting, biting back a shout. 

He leaned an arm against the wall, water falling on his shoulders, breathing shakily, laughing. Fuck. He had needed that. He stood, breathing hard, waiting for his heart to slow, stretching out the moment. Slowly he straightened, moved under the spray to wash the spunk off his stomach, used the last of the soap to clean himself down, wash his cock. Scrubbed his hair under the spray one final time, turned the tap off. His face was hot but he would cool down fast. He stepped over to his towel, rubbed himself down briskly. Felt - not exactly cleansed, but clear-eyed for the first time that day. He had not dared look at Clive, after he had walked away. But he knew, he knew, what Clive’s face would show. It was like kicking a dog. How many times would it come back, before it learnt its lesson? You couldn’t punish a dog for not understanding the world outside itself. It was cruel. And - Clive _loved_ him. He blinked unexpected tears back at that. There was no room in a place like this for love. But he could, he must, make amends. 

He towelled his hair vigorously, smoothed it back. Turned to his sweaty clothes, wished he could walk back up to his bunk naked. Ha! That would show the world. He would write to Clive, perhaps. Davies - he balked. Davies would have his address. No, he would be indebted to Davies no longer. He pulled on his underwear, screwing up his nose a little at the dampness. He must be careful, of course. Davies must not suspect. That would be bad for Clive. He could take care of himself. Davies was a coward, though. And he would go back to his cloistered schoolteaching existence, grateful for the crumbs that Theo had allowed him, thinking they were a feast. He could always write to Clive at his club, as before. He put on his shirt, rolled up the sleeves, left the neck open. Bent down to pull his trousers on. The war had been over for eight months. They must be going home soon. He had lost sight of that. He had done what he had to. Now he would do what he wanted to. As much as he could, at least. He would ring Clive, yes. Soon. He left off his socks, stepped barefoot into his boots. Roomier, less hot. Buckled them. Folded his tunic neatly and rolled it. There was Edith to think of, now. He had looked after his men. He needed to look after Edith too. He tucked his tunic and wet towel under his arm and walked out of the cool damp stables into the warm evening. It was better now - with his hair still damp, with his shirtsleeves rolled and his throat bare - to be out in the evening sun. 

He walked back up the path, past the lake. Thought - allowed himself to think, now - of that long ago day with Clive, splashing about like boys in the cold water of the Stolpchensee. They had been kids, really. He’d had no idea what was to come. Would he still, he thought, would he still have done it? Would he still have lingered with Clive, that last evening? Until it was impossible to leave? Would he still have lain in Clive’s bed in the dark, pressed up close enough to feel him trembling, and thought, to hell with the world, and kissed him? 

His life would have been easier, in a way. He walked past the main house, saw the lamp lit on the little table in Davies’ room. Not tonight. He would give too much away. He was clean, and calm, and he wanted to stay that way. But - to have Clive look at him, for even a moment, like he had that afternoon. It was not enough to balance against all the years apart, all the desperate moments. The dark nights lying awake, wishing shamefully that it was Clive and not Edith next to him. But it was something. The purest truth. It had not even been a choice, had it? He and Clive. You did not choose to fall. It had happened before he knew. Yes, he would ring Clive, and make amends. That was something he could do. He walked up to the door of the building which held their barracks, heard the rumble of voices, a bark of laughter. Pushed through into the warm musty room, nodded easily to the greetings from his men. 

“Coffee, Oberst?”  called his Leutnant, from the stove. 

“No, thank you, Willem. It’s too hot, still, this evening.” He walked over to his bunk, draped the damp towel over the end rail, hung his tunic off the peg. Sat down, unbuckling his boots, and toed them off. 

“You’ll have a smoke, though, Theo?” asked Otto, from the next bunk.

“Always” he smiled easily, leaning back, taking the offered cigarette. He lit it, inhaled, coughed.

“Christ, Otto, what’s in this? Woodshavings?”

“Something like that. Some package from those do-gooding women. I think they mean to show how progressive they are, whilst turning us off cigarettes for life.”

“Yes” Theo laughed, ruefully. “That sounds like a very English way of doing things. They are rarely direct, the English.” Except for Clive, he thought, smiling more softly. 

“Well, it’s up to you. If you want a better smoke, you’ll have to beat the Commandant at chess again.”

“Ah, Otto” Theo said, settling back more comfortably on the narrow bed. “I fear my days of winning cigarettes from the Commandant are over. We will just have to put up with these foul things until we get home.”

“So be it,” said Otto, blowing out a smoke ring with practiced ease. “I never took them for granted, anyway.”

“Good. That is the best way.” Theo said, stretching fully, and settling down again. He took another drag of the cheap cigarette, holding its acrid smoke in his lungs for a moment. Yes, it was as poor in its way as the foul weak coffee, and the crummy soap, and the threadbare towels. But it was also, in its way, the cleanest thing in this whole filthy camp. A gift, freely given, with nothing asked in return. Like Clive, he thought, closing his eyes, pillowing his arm beneath his head. Just like Clive. The cleanest thing in this whole filthy world. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **jennytheshipper** for the enthusiastic beta, as ever, and to **tea-with-theo** for continually fangirling wet!Theo with me, prompting this fic. 
> 
> Thanks to Emeric for using the chess-as-something-more metaphor from _The Tempest_ and putting it in _AMOLAD,_ amongst others. 
> 
> Cigarette research led me to discover that while most average English soldiers smoked Woodbines (excuse me while I go off into a swoon about early 20th century fag packet design), and the better off officers might be smoking Capstan, Player's Weights were the absolute worst quality fags, and that is what the ladies send to the POWs, in my brainpan.


End file.
